


making shades of purple out of red and blue

by gayriot



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayriot/pseuds/gayriot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was used to things staying the same, the never-ending cycle of his life that ended with him floating off somewhere. It was supposed to be just him, no one interfering so that he could get on with his life and leave everything behind in the dust.</p><p>But this change, he supposed, he could make an exception for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	making shades of purple out of red and blue

**Author's Note:**

> so this may or may not be somewhat inspired by troye sivan's "for him."
> 
> (who am i kidding i put the lyrics in the title it's totally inspired by troye's song.)

John Egbert wasn't the easiest person in the world to become close with at first. It took a very specific personality type to not take his playful jabs to heart and to handle his somewhat-unworldly persona. Of course, he was still very friendly and approachable, he just didn't have many close friends because of the way he was. Despite that, some people were actually able to absolutely adore his naturally oblivious state of mind as well as become slightly irritated by it. 

"Some people" meaning Dave Strider.

He wasn't sure why, exactly, he enjoyed his slightly ignorant personality or the way he was so blunt with people while still managing to be nice about it, or why he still at least cracked a small smirk at his awful jokes and his passion for horrible films that weren't even worthy to be considered part of the cinematic arts. In a way, Dave could even give the slightest appreciation for some of the shitty moving pictures John called "art" solely because they were so bad they were funny. He'd like to make a shitty movie of his own someday--a purposely shitty one, of course. One so bad that even Egbert would recognize the sheer irony of it all and be able to laugh along with him. But, a 23-year-old who still lives off of instant noodle cups and juice boxes could only dream so much. (No matter how much John cooked for him, he still found himself falling into old habits.) 

Getting back to the previous topic, John Egbert was a blissfully ignorant dickwad with annoyingly adorable thick, curly black hair and an even more annoying slight Italian accent that Dave had tried so hard to store in his mind. 

Actually, the part about his hair and his voice wasn't even brought up in the previous topic, but now that it's already been said, it's time to roll with the punches. 

There were other annoying things about John that Dave would never admit to noticing. For example, the prominent back dimples he had that were clearly visible every time he stepped out of the shower with just a towel on because he had forgotten to bring his change of clothes with him. Or the way his long fingers tapped rapidly against his cheek while they ate breakfast on their couch. (He loves saying that; "their couch," "their apartment.") And the way he manages to smell of petrichor and something that might be frosting all the time, even while he's sleeping. ("Buying just one bed for the both of us is a lot cheaper, Dave! Trust me.")

This morning, Dave is greeted by familiar smelling gray sheets and the sound of humming coming from the kitchen. He stays in bed for a few more minutes, eyes still closed and ears focused on the sound of his roommate cooking breakfast, the occasional curse and sound of food sizzling in a pan being the only things to break the calm atmosphere settled over the apartment. When he hears things settle down in the kitchen, he rises out of his pillow-ridden grave, slipping on his Hello Kitty slippers waiting at the foot of their bed, and trudges slowly out of the room.

John is in the middle of placing a few slightly burnt pancakes onto a plate. An apron that proudly proclaims "SMOOCH THE SOUS CHEF" is tied around his waist, the gag gift he bought him for Christmas two years ago still serving its purpose.

"Look at you--John Egbert, professional housewife and self proclaimed sous chef," Dave comments groggily. "I'm so lucky."

"You bet your scrawny ass you are," he laughs, handing a plate of pancakes to him. "Eat up sweetie, you've got a big day at the office ahead of you!" he continues in a forced falsetto tone. 

The two of them settle down on the couch as usual, John still wearing the apron and Dave inhaling every pancake on his plate. Sunlight streams in through the few open windows, dancing across John's hair. Once Dave is done with his food, he sits and watches the way the light wraps around each strand of hair, showing off varying tones of brown and black all mixed together. John eats slowly, toying with the apron wrapped around him, and once he's done, he finally takes it off.

Running a hand through his own orange hair, Dave cleans up and thinks of how routine this has all become. Living with him, waking up together or to the smell of food, sitting in silence for most of the morning because mornings are the time of day where they both seek solace in the stillness of their quiet neighborhood. All of it is so...normal. It's an average, everyday life that, somehow, Dave had become accustomed to after years of living in a house where the fridge was strictly for swords and other weapons. But there are no swords in the fridge here, and sometimes it still unsettles him how easily John's life had influenced his. 

But a little bit of unsettlement he can deal with.

Dave and John treat every Sunday as a day to completely laze around, a sort of break from their usually hectic college schedules, and today is no different. The redhead collapses back into bed, a certain ravenette following his lead and snuggling into his side as soon as his body hits the mattress. Dave closes his eyes, but is kept awake by the feel of soft breaths on his shoulders. 

"...John," he whispers.

A quiet, "Mmph," is all he receives in return.

He hesitates before replying, scratching at the back of his head as he thinks of what he should say.

"...Love you, dude."

The room is quiet, save for the steady sound of John's breathing.

"Love you, too," he mumbles, just loud enough for Dave to pick up on it. 

His life is different now, and it's nothing like it was when he was nineteen. He's not sure how he'll handle all the changes--19-year-old him would NOT have handled it at all--but maybe he'll figure out how to fit this in. Whatever it is. 

It still takes some getting used to.


End file.
